


hear it in the silence

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coda, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian helps Mickey clean up, and baths aren't just for rich kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hear it in the silence

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Imagine your OTP taking a bath together. No sex or friskiness, just having conversations while washing the others hair/back and enjoying the warm water.
> 
> So. This happened.
> 
> Set the night before Ian's low-low, coda 4x12.
> 
> Title from a Taylor Swift song, You Are In Love. In case no one thought that song (and lbr the whole album) was about Ian and Mickey.
> 
> also, warnings for horrible, horrible language, because it's mickey

Mickey was bleeding.

          This was not, on the whole, a shocking new occurrence. Still, Ian raised his eyebrows when his boyfriend stumbled through the front door, and even took his eyes off the television, stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray next to the couch. Mickey was unsurprised to see Ian in his house, even though Mandy was at work, his brothers had fucked off on a job, the girls were working a night shift, and Svetlana and a friend of hers had taken Yevgeny to some appointment at the free clinic and had apparently decided to stay at the other woman’s overnight. For once, they had the place to themselves.

          “Jesus, Mick,” said Ian, sounding more exasperated than concerned, “What the hell happened to you?”

          “You should see the other guy,” said Mickey, throwing himself down on the couch as well, his legs stretching over Ian’s lap. Most people said this as a joke to cover how spectacularly they had lost whatever fight in which they’d been involved, but Mickey wasn’t kidding. Whatever that asshole’s fists had done to his face was nothing to what Mickey’s baseball bat had done to the guy’s ribs.

          Ian plucked at the bottom of Mickey’s jeans, throwing his feet off the couch. Mickey leveled him with a look.

          “Dirt gettin’ you squeamish, princess?” he asked in disbelief. “It’s my couch.”

          “I’d rather not have some random creep’s blood on my only nice pants,” said Ian. “Lip called; Fiona’s just been released. CFS is swinging by tomorrow to make sure everything’s up to code, and Fi needs all the help she can get. I’m going by after breakfast to help clean up, and I’d rather not look like I was out bashing thugs all night.”

          Mickey leaned over to grab the pack of cigarettes on the table in front of them. “Something wrong with my job?” he asked, sticking a cigarette between his lips and searching for a lighter amidst the mess in front of him.

          Ian laughed. “I give lap dances for a living, Mick. I’m just saying, Family Services probably don’t want a group of skull-bashing pimps looking after a bunch of kids.”

          “Hey, this was completely un-pimp-related, okay?” said Mickey defensively. That was not technically true, but if he stretched it enough, he could pretend that he’d beaten up that guy in defense of his wife’s honor, and not because he was trying to run a business and some slimy asshole hadn’t felt like paying up in full.

          “Or some dumbasses busted up from robbing liquor stores, whatever,” said Ian, waving a hand dismissively.

          “Hey, fuck you,” snapped Mickey. He finally located a lighter kicked under the couch, and he when he lit up, he deliberately blew smoke directly into Ian’s face. Ian was on his second relapse since officially quitting smoking, and even though he’d been at it not five minutes earlier, he glared at Mickey.

          “Dick.”

          “Bitch,” Mickey answered automatically, and he threw his legs back over Ian’s lap.

          Ian shoved him off again and got to his feet. “Fuck you,” he said, pushing at his shoulder. “Go take a shower, you smell like a sewer.”

          “Hey, I can’t help where I catch up with these scumbags!”

          “Mickey, I’m serious. I swear to god, I’m not sharing a bed with you smelling like ass.”

          “I thought you liked all ass-related things about me,” said Mickey, smirking, but Ian just rolled his eyes. When he crossed his arms and aimed another pointed look at him, Mickey’s smug smile dropped. He took another long drag off the cigarette, then dropped his head onto the back of the couch, watching as the smoke puffed out in smooth rings floating in graceful swirls up to the ceiling. “Come on, man,” he said, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “I’m too beat to stand for another second.”

          _“Mickey—”_

          “Ian,” he mocked back, not bothering to lift his head.

          “God, you’re impossible,” said Ian. “I’ll just sleep at home tonight.”

          He knew he was being baited, but that didn’t stop him from reacting: Mickey jerked upright, grabbing onto Ian’s arm to stop him from turning away. When he was suddenly blinded by a triumphant smile, he just huffed grumpily and shoved at Ian’s hip, which was the highest point he could reach from his spot on the couch.

          “Fuck you,” he said again.

          “Maybe if you clean up,” said Ian, waggling his eyebrows as he backed away.

          Mickey grumbled as he flopped down onto his back, wondering how it was possible to be so hopelessly in love with someone so fucking _annoying_. He finished off his cigarette slowly, reveling in each deep breath, the smoke in his lungs clearing his head with each drag. The day really had dragged on; he’d slept fitfully (and he’d never admit it, but the most likely cause of this was the fact that Ian hadn’t stayed over) and been woken early by Kenyatta. He resisted the urge to stab his sister’s boyfriend while he snapped at him to haul ass to the Alibi, and after gulping down a cup of coffee that somehow didn’t taste as good as what the Gallaghers always had, he had gone down to find the Rub ‘N’ Tug in chaos. The girls had been screaming obscenities in Russian at some balding guy huddled in the corner, and one of them had been hitting him repeatedly with one of her stilettos. After trying to break it all up and discern what had gone down, all the while having explanations shouted at him by a bunch of foreign hookers, Mickey had eventually given up and sent the girls down for free drinks while he kicked the shit out of the guy in the corner, then sent him out. Kev had sent him on two errands—one for booze to replace what the girls had drunk, one to catch some asshole that had tried to short them cash upstairs—and he’d cased the liquor store for three hours before realizing that they had security cameras posted up all over the place. He had decided to give up and use the money Kev had given him. It had taken the whole rest of the afternoon to catch up to the thief, and he’d ended up putting up a hell of a fight, even managing to get in a few good hits to his face. Mickey just didn’t feel like taking a fucking shower because his boyfriend wanted to look like he was good at playing house tomorrow.

          Ian returned after twenty minutes, and Mickey groaned and resisted while Ian pulled on his arm, trying to drag him off the couch. They swore at each other while they tussled, but Ian _had_ been in the army, even if only for a second, and he eventually won. Mickey’s cursing increased tenfold as he landed on his ass, and he punched Ian lightly on the arm when he got to his feet.

          “You’re the worst,” he said, leaning down to put out his cigarette.

          “Yeah, yeah,” said Ian, pulling him toward the bathroom, “Come on, I drew you a bath.”

          Mickey stopped short, staring at him with his eyebrows raised. “You want me to take my makeup off before I get in, too?”

          “Shut up,” said Ian, laughing a little. He shoved at his shoulder to make him walk, and Mickey relented and led the way to the bathroom. Ian leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed, expression relaxed and appraising while Mickey shucked his shirt into the corner.

          “I can do this part by myself, thanks,” Mickey said when he didn’t immediately leave.

          “I can’t watch my boyfriend strip?” Ian asked lightly, but Mickey could tell by the way his mouth quirked up at the corners that he really liked using the title. “You see me do it all the time.”

          “Technically I only see you shake your ass in those old fucks’ faces,” Mickey muttered. He didn’t like to think about Ian’s job too much, which was a little ridiculous because he was a pimp that was married to and had a baby with a prostitute, for fuck’s sake.

          “Then you can do a little dance for me, too,” said Ian. His tone was teasing, but his eyes were roaming freely over all of Mickey’s exposed skin.

          Mickey grinned as he stepped out of his jeans, and he pulled Ian to him by his belt so that they were inches apart, and he had to crane his neck back to look him in the face properly. “If you’re gonna watch the show this closely, you might as well join in.”

          “I’m clean,” said Ian, but he let Mickey pull his shirt over his head anyway.

          “Not for long,” said Mickey, and his laugh was cut short by Ian pulling him up to kiss him. Ian’s hands twisted into his hair, and he assumed this meant he’d won and that his boyfriend-sanctioned clean-up was about to become at least ten times more interesting, but Ian pulled back before Mickey could even start work on his jeans. Mickey really tried to sneer instead of pout. Judging by Ian’s amused look, he didn’t really succeed, which only served to enhance his indignation.

          “Get in,” Ian said instead of teasing, and he jerked his chin at the bath. When Mickey only crossed his arms, he added, “I’m serious!” and started to undo his belt, batting away Mickey’s hands when he tried to assist.

          “Jesus, you’re a bossy fucker tonight,” said Mickey, turning away and stripping out of his boxers. “And not in a good way.”

          “Yeah?” said Ian idly, and when Mickey turned to face him again, Ian didn’t even pretend not to flick his eyes once up and down his body. “So if I _ordered_ you to help me out of my jeans, you’d be into it?”

          “Fuck you is what I’d be into,” said Mickey, making a face, but when he realized that that wasn’t an insult so much as a statement of fact, he rolled his eyes and climbed into the bathtub. Ian could undress himself, the stupid obnoxious prick.

          Still, he wasn’t so determined to spite Ian that he would snub himself in the process, so he settled back in the water, eyes fixed on the boy throwing the last of his clothes out through the door into Mickey’s room. Ian shut the door—neither of them were unaccustomed to people storming through while they were in the bathroom, so Mickey knew he only did it because Mickey himself was still not entirely comfortable with certain members of his suddenly bursting household (Kenyatta, some of the Russians, and even Svetlana usually had a snarky comment or two to throw around) witnessing him being even remotely _more than friends_ with Ian, and he was privately grateful—and sauntered over. He nudged Mickey in the small of his back with his foot.

          “The fuck you kicking me for?”

          “Scoot forward, dumbass.”

          “Oh.”

          He obliged, and the water trembled around him as Ian climbed in behind him. The redhead settled, his legs stretched out around Mickey, and pulled him backwards by the shoulder so that Mickey was leaning back against his chest. He wasn’t sure how this had anything to do with bathing, and he couldn’t really see how they were supposed to mess around in this position either, but he wasn’t exactly _opposed_ to being wrapped up like this. Still, at a loss for what he was supposed to be doing, he reverted to his usual defensive reactions: Fight or fuck. And he wasn’t really in the mood to fight anymore today.

          He propped one elbow up on the rim of the bath, his other hand settling midway up Ian’s thigh beside him. Ian, apparently ignoring him, grabbed one of the bottles next to his head and started reading the label. Evidently dissatisfied with what he found, he replaced it and picked up another. Mickey dug his nails in. Ian clicked his tongue and grabbed a third bottle. Mickey pressed further back against him.

          “You mind?” Ian asked mildly.

          Mickey let up immediately. He twisted around as best he could in present conditions. “Don’t tell me you’re really turning down a chance to fuck me in the tub, Gallagher?”

          Ian pulled a thoroughly disgusted face. “That sounds like swimming in come,” he said. “Literally.”

          “Wait, we’re not fucking?” asked Mickey. Ian gave him a look like he was being weird and ridiculous, but Ian had only turned him down for sex once (and he didn’t like to think about that fight, anyway—anything surrounding Ian’s brief army leave was thoroughly repressed throughout the Milkovich household) and he couldn’t think of a good reason why _not_.

          “Not in the bath, at least. Nope.”

          “So why are you here?” Mickey asked bluntly, but he turned around again before Ian had a chance to answer, settling back against him. Didn’t want the stupid kid thinking he should actually _go_ or anything.

          “To make sure you get all the blood off,” said Ian lightly. Mickey wasn’t convinced that this was the entire reason, but before he could prod further, Ian continued, “Where’s the shampoo, by the way? You _do_ have shampoo, don’t you?”

          “Yes, we have shampoo,” Mickey snapped. “Jesus, we’re not total animals.”

          He leaned forward and grabbed at a bottle on the other end of the tub, near the faucet, and passed it over his shoulder. Mickey started a little when he felt Ian’s deft fingers sliding into his own hair, but he wasn’t exactly _uncomfortable_ with the proceedings, so he didn’t say anything. Ian hummed lightly while he ran his hands through Mickey’s hair in an admittedly soothing manner.

          “Turns out your hands might have more than once use after all,” said Mickey after a minute or two.

          “Ha, ha,” Ian returned blandly, now scooping up water to pour over his head. The suds washed out and over his shoulders. He watched them fall in tiny piles into the water, then used his hands to make little rivulets so that they swirled away from him, like the smoke rings from before. Ian rinsed his hair out a couple more times while he busied himself with the suds.

          “You want me to dunk?”

          “I got it.”

          Mickey picked up the soap while Ian was finishing up with his hair and started rubbing down his arms. After one more handful of water over his head, however, Ian reached over and plucked the bar out of his hands, and Mickey rubbed it around the skin he’d done while Ian started on his back.

          “How’d you get blood on your back?” Ian asked, supremely unconcerned, while he scrubbed at a spot that was apparently giving him trouble. Mickey was pretty sure there were places he hadn’t managed to reach in forever, so he could only imagine what Ian was trying to get out at the moment.

          “That dick caught a blow to the back of my head,” said Mickey, tapping just below the spot in question. “It’s scabbed over by now,” he added as Ian immediately inspected the wound. Ian made a low noise, possibly of anger, and resumed washing Mickey’s back.

          “You kill him?” Ian asked after a few moments’ silence.

          “No,” said Mickey, but it came out as more of a question in his confusion. “He just owed us a fifty. Tried to short us, didn’t tell us about the round two he got from Nadya.”

          “I might,” said Ian.

          “Might what?”

          “Might kill him.”

          Mickey scoffed, slipping his arms under the water to wash off the soap. “Thanks, Prince Charming, but I can handle my shit.”

          “Obviously,” said Ian, and Mickey knew that he was rolling his eyes. He wondered idly what particular instance Ian was thinking about; a few days ago, when he’d beaten the shit out of his father at the bar? When he’d kicked Ian’s brother into a bloody mess? One of the many times he’d attempted to cave in Ian’s own head? He was broken from this bleak train of thought when Ian continued softly, “Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to kill him.”

          Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to give a derisive retort, but he was also oddly pleased, and the words got stuck in his throat. Instead he barked a laugh and said, “Man, if you tried to put the lights out on every asshole I got into a scrape with, you’d wipe out the whole town. Yourself included.”

          He was relieved when Ian gave a slight chuckle, apparently breaking from his vindictive mood. The memory of a knife at Kenyatta’s throat was too recent for comfort, when it came to Ian seeking revenge. “True,” he murmured—mostly to himself, it sounded. He put down the bar of soap and started spreading it over the skin with his hands, pausing to massage at Mickey’s shoulders and neck. Mickey stretched, giving him an easier time of it. They didn’t speak again until Ian started pouring water over his back, just as he’d done his hair.

          “How’s Mandy?” Ian asked. He rubbed his thumb at a spot he had apparently missed, just over Mickey’s shoulder blade. When satisfied, he continued washing off the rest of the soap, tiny handfuls of water running in rivulets over Mickey’s muscles and scars.

          “How the fuck should I know?” he answered, dropping his head back onto Ian’s shoulder when the taller boy grabbed the soap again and looped his arms under Mickey’s so that he could get at his chest and stomach.

          “Maybe because she’s your sister,” said Ian, somewhat sharply. Sometimes Mickey thought Ian might be more invested in Mandy than he was. Their friendship was still somewhat mystifying to him, but then, he guessed it was similar to Ian’s attraction to him; the two youngest Milkoviches were more alike than they liked to pretend.

          “Well, she ain’t talking.” Mickey snorted, closing his eyes. Relaxing was easy with those long fingers working their way across his abdomen in soft, soothing circles. God knows what long-forgotten wounds Ian was afraid of hurting, but he couldn’t work up the energy to tell him not to baby him; Mickey was covered in scars. Besides, Ian probably wouldn’t listen anyway.

          “Any new bruises?”

          “Not on her face.” Not that that meant anything.

          Mickey could feel Ian nodding from where his cheek brushed his hairline. It was slow, almost thoughtful. Before saying anything else, he worked his way across Mickey’s collarbone, extra careful and gentle on his neck. Mickey was grateful; he didn’t need his reflexes triggered when everything was so tranquil for a change. His hands drifted back to Ian’s legs, but they weren’t demanding as they’d been before. Something about touching Ian just soothed him, tempered some deep-seated anxiety that never quite went away, and probably never would. Being quick to jump to action was necessary to survive, both at home and at work, but he still wanted to calm down _sometimes_. He could only seem to do that with Ian around.

          “Thanks for not letting me kill him,” Ian said quietly after a moment.

          “Hard to fuck me from prison,” Mickey returned simply, but he squeezed Ian’s thigh where his hand was resting, and they both understood.

          They were quiet for another moment, the only sound throughout the whole house that of Ian scooping water over Mickey’s chest. When he was done, he nudged Mickey with his shoulder, urging him upright. Mickey made a grumbling sound low in his chest that he would definitely deny to his grave, but he sat up anyway.

          “What?” he huffed out. He turned around, only to see Ian quickly trying to stifle a grin. “The fuck you laughing at, Gallagher?”

          “Nothing,” said Ian, shaking his head, but he split into an even wider grin when Mickey proceeded to pout harder. “I can’t get your legs, you’re on your own. I’ll finish your hair while you do them.” He tossed Mickey the soap and starting sifting through the bottles on the edge of the tub again, searching for conditioner.

          Mickey, not one to admit that he was already wildly spoiled and no longer wanted to ever wash himself again, complied without complaint. He was much less thorough than Ian had been, scrubbing roughly at the skin with no degree of precision. Behind him, Ian found the right bottle, squirted some conditioner into his hands, and started running them through Mickey’s hair again.

          “You sure you don’t wanna mess around in here?” Mickey pressed as one of Ian’s fingers got caught in a tangle and tugged just to the side of painful that Mickey typically liked.

          “Cum bath, remember?”

          “Oh yeah, because swimming in some mick’s blood is so much better,” Mickey said derisively, starting on his other leg.

          Instead of answering him directly, Ian peered over his shoulder and said lightly, “You’re terrible at that, you know. Like, that’s the worst wash job I’ve ever seen.”

          “Hey, back off, asshole. I’ve been cleaning myself for twenty years, thank you very much.”

          “Don’t know who let you get away with that,” Ian muttered, still raking his hands through Mickey’s hair.

          “Neglectful parents and a sister who wouldn’t make me pizza bagels if I didn’t shower.”

          “She bribed you with those too? Shit, she’s not subtle.”

          Apparently done adding conditioner, Ian pulled Mickey back to his chest to let it sit for a minute. He grabbed some of Mandy’s fruity-smelling face soap and, despite Mickey’s protests, starting rubbing it into his cheeks.

          “What’d she get you with?” Mickey asked, finishing up on his other leg and slipping it back into the tub as well.

          “She mostly cashed them in for massages and free tutoring,” said Ian, working the soap into his forehead. “Dunk.”

          Mickey did, scrubbing at his face while he was under the water to make sure it was all out of his eyes. As soon as he resurfaced, slicking his hair back and blinking the water out of his eyes, he immediately settled back against Ian.

          “You done washing me yet, Ma?”

          “Yeah,” said Ian, but he seemed as disinclined to move as Mickey felt, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s chest and pulling him back even more as he reclined a little, humming some tune Mickey didn’t recognize.

          After another five or so minutes, when the water was starting to cool off properly and it became clear that Ian had no intention of actually bathing himself, Mickey stirred from his half-asleep position. Ian protested incoherently, trying to plaster Mickey to his chest with his arms.

          “Come on, you jackass,” Mickey laughed, struggling out of Ian’s admittedly impressive hold. “Stay in here any longer and you’ll prune up.”

          Ian pretended not to hear him. Shaking his head, Mickey climbed out of the tub by himself, fetching two towels and wrapping one around his waist after ruffling it quickly through his hair. He slung the other one over his elbow and knelt down beside the bathtub, face level with Ian’s, who was still lying back with his eyes closed.

          “Come on,” Mickey repeated, poking at Ian’s shoulder. He didn’t move, or indicate in any way that he had heard him. “Come _on_ , get up, I want to go to bed!”

          “No one’s stopping you,” Ian murmured, still not opening his eyes.

          “Don’t be a dick,” Mickey said, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice so that Ian would maybe take him seriously. “Let’s go, get your ass out of the tub. Fuckin’ five year old.”

          “I don’t think five year olds like taking baths, actually,” Ian mused, finally cracking one eye open and peering at Mickey for his reaction.

          “Fuck off with that,” he said, but the harsh effect was lost somewhat behind his half-smile and the affectionate shake of his head. After another ten seconds’ immobility, Mickey pushed himself to his feet, muttering obscenities about his boyfriend. He positioned himself behind him and stooped down to grab Ian under the arms, pulling him up. As soon as Ian realized what Mickey was doing, he stopped supporting himself, and the sudden dead weight almost made Mickey fall face-forward into the water again. He caught himself, having dragged his fair share of dead and unconscious bodies around in his lifetime, and managed to pull Ian up. At risk of being dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, Ian got his bearings in time to land relatively unscathed on the tile.

          “Fuck you,” said Ian, laughing and extending an arm. Grinning outright now, Mickey grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet.

          Mickey stooped to pick up the second towel, which he’d dropped on the floor while Ian was refusing to get out, and threw it at his head. Ian caught it in time and bent to drain the bath before swiping the towel over his chest and tying it around his waist as well.

          “I don’t know,” Mickey said, heaving a huge fake yawn. He even stretched for effect, and starting lumbering for the door into his room. “I’m pretty tired. Maybe tomorrow?”

          “Yeah right!” said Ian grabbing him from behind before he could leave. Mickey twisted in his grip, getting him around the waist, but before he could do anything else Ian was laughing too loudly and catching his face and kissing him. Mickey froze, play fight over too fast to immediately process, and let Ian back him up against the open door’s frame. When his hands dropped to his waist, the movement thick with intent, Ian pulled back, a triumphant look on his face.

          “Too tired, huh?”

          “You’re an asshole, you know that?” said Mickey without heat, but he pushed at Ian’s chest anyway and went to go scrounge for sweatpants. He found a relatively clean pair, pulled them on, and turned around to see Ian tugging on a pair of his own.

          “Hey, salvation army, you wanna ask before you take my shit?”

          “These are mine,” said Ian, sounding confused. He pointed at his feet, which were just visible underneath the hem, and clearly indicative of a correctly sized pair. He then pointed at Mickey’s toes, which were the only thing sticking out from his own sweatpants, a little too long on him. “Those are mine too.”

          “Why the fuck’s all your shit in my room?” asked Mickey, and even though they were really comfortable and he had no real qualms, he stripped out of the sweatpants on principle, refusing to look at Ian’s amused expression as he ambled over to the bed and climbed in.

          Ian joined him, slipping into the other side and immediately reaching for Mickey. He let Ian cuddle up to him without complaint, not bothering to address all the shitty psychological reasons that led to him liking affection but having the urge to rebuff it anyway. Of course, all the warmth and safety and emotional crap that he generally enjoyed in bed with Ian was damaged when his boyfriend nuzzled his nose into the small of his back and whispered, “It’s cos I’ve been fucking your sister.”

          Mickey shouted out, trying to struggle away from him, while Ian laughed his head off and pressed more firmly against his body, until he was practically on top of him and Mickey had no hope of getting away anymore.

          “Alright, alright, I wanna tap out!” he shouted, rolling his eyes at Ian’s victorious whoop and shoving him off to the side. “Goddamn, Gallagher, you’re a pain in the ass.”

          “On good days,” Ian said blithely, ignoring Mickey’s feeble protests when he cuddled up to him again. “I’m a little tired tonight though.”

          Mickey tried not to laugh at how downright _adorable_ he found his boyfriend (and he really hated that word, but he had a tough time finding another description so apt), because he didn’t need Ian getting a bigger head, and bit the inside of his cheek until he calmed down. When he felt he could hold it all in, he closed his eyes and settled more comfortably against the body behind him.

          As he drifted to sleep, he thought he felt Ian lift the hand around his waist and settle it over Mickey’s own hand, clearly thinking he was already asleep. Instead of protesting, Mickey shut his eyes tighter. He could always yell at Ian in the morning.


End file.
